Roma Speaks: Meet Some Dogs

What? You want me to do what now?? You're kidding. Why can't you do it? Fine. Okay. I said fine. 

Since Herself seems disinclined to write today's blog, I, Roma-dog, will do it. 

Meet these guys. The tough one is Bandit. She's all right. I respect her. She doesn't take any guff. Now, it's kind  of a mixed message when the guy puts the water down in front of me and then she tries to bite my head off, but I get it. It's a turf thing. I'll just go over here to this other water bowl. Fine by me. Okey-dokey.

The other two don't bother me. They're okay by me. They mop the place up with that Muzzy character. Muzzy. What's the deal? Everybody's got to grab that kid by the ears and talk in swoopy voices. "Oh, Muzzy, you're sooo cyooote." I was never cute. Cute is kids' stuff. I had a litter of puppies and was shipped off to the shelter before I was year old. But I was patient. I didn't bark or whine or do any of that stupid doggie stuff at the shelter. I waited until the right mark walked in the door and then I bagged her. I wanted one I could push around, give the cold paw to, and get away with murder. And I did, too, for a while. Then came the training and commands. Pheh. So we compromised. I do what Herself says—most of the time. Now I pretend I can't hear her. After twelve years, can you blame me? I have heard it all, sister. Believe me. It's enough to make a grown dog cry.

The gig hasn't been so bad. Herself is all right most of the time. And the kid has learned to stay out of my face, too. There's plenty of food and walks. I bag a lot of treats on those walks, too, let me tell you. The "sad eyes" bit slays them every time. "She looks so worried." Heh, heh. Suckers. And I've traveled. I've played in snow, splashed in the ocean, and hiked the Appalachian Trail. I've lived in two time zones, eaten rat poison, and been sprayed by a skunk and lived to tell about it. No big deal.  

All right, already. Enough. Where's my cookie?

-z

Photo of Bailey, Maggie, and Bandit courtesy of Scott.

Photo of Roma courtesy of Herself

Two More Voices

"Good stick.

Got a good stick.

A real

good

Stick.

Getting all the good

Out of this good

Stick

That's in

This

good 

Stick."

--Joey, cropped a little too close

"The move came at a bad time for me. 

The squirrel that I buried in the leafwallow . . .

And now I'll never see

What was hiding in the loghollow.

They can't have known.

Here, there's just a small lawn."

--Bandit, so soulful

Poems by Roy Blount, Jr., inspired by photographs by Valerie Shaff (not shown here, obviously), from If only you knew how much I smell you: True portraits of dogs (undated, A Bullfinch Press Book)

Dear readers who think that I'm playing favorites on this blog should send in photos of their own dogs. You send 'em; I'll post 'em. --z